


Unmade

by Practicefortheheart



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Drabble, Fluff, Implied/Referenced Torture, M/M, Sherlock's scars
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-22
Updated: 2015-06-22
Packaged: 2018-04-05 15:14:06
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 426
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4184631
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Practicefortheheart/pseuds/Practicefortheheart
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It started with a kiss. As some things do.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Unmade

**Author's Note:**

  * For [loveanddeathandartandtaxes](https://archiveofourown.org/users/loveanddeathandartandtaxes/gifts).



It started with a kiss. As some things do.

Sherlock was pressed against his bedroom door, John leaning up to reach his mouth and take him apart.

It didn’t take much to take him apart these days.

This wasn’t their first kiss, but it was still new enough to overwhelm Sherlock and this was the first time there was a promise for more.

John’s capable fingers teased the pearly buttons of Sherlock’s shirt through their buttonholes, exposing the long line of neck and chest.

Sherlock closed his eyes against what he knew would happen next.

John’s hand disappeared under his shirt, sliding over his chest. His lips were still moving against Sherlock’s jaw, he hadn’t yet realised that Sherlock himself had become still as a statue.

Cupping his shoulder briefly, the hand moved onwards, gliding over his back and then suddenly it faltered, stuttered to a stop.

“Sherlock, what…” Breath left John’s lungs in shock, warm and damp against Sherlock’s collarbone. His voice was raw. Arousal mingled with dawning understanding.

Sherlock cleared his throat. “They caught me in Serbia, right before I came back.” _Home. To you._

John peeled the shirt off his body then, moving slowly to stand behind him, to have a closer look at where his skin had been unmade and had made itself again. Calloused fingers followed a ridge of raised tissue, the sensation flickering between the tingle of warm skin on skin and nothing at all where it had gone numb.

John dropped his forehead against Sherlock’s spine, his short hair tickling between his shoulder blades.

“Why didn’t you take me with you? I could’ve prevented this, I could have helped.”

Sherlock bowed his head, remembering where he was ,now: in his own room with John’s hands gliding over his sides, resting on his narrow hips. The cold dampness of the cellar in Serbia was a long way away.

John pressed himself against his back, his closeness warming Sherlock to his core. Lips against his nape. John’s right hand moved forward and up to rest on the small pink scar Mary’s bullet had left.

“I’ve hurt you so much,” John whispered into his skin, not talking about the bullet. “But I didn’t know, Sherlock, I didn’t.”

“I’ve hurt you too,” He placed his hand on John’s smaller one. Long pale fingers against tanned blunt ones.

They stood there for a few long moments, sharing warmth and promises.

“It’s different now, though. Isn’t it?” John asked.

“Yes,” Sherlock replied softly. “Never again without you, John.”

He felt the smile against his back.

 

 


End file.
